He had eventually left Florence with his lust unslaked. But to this day, the sound of an attractive woman singing could send a thrill up and down his spine. And now, in the person of Marla Linder, he might be able to attain his desire, his longing.
That thought caused his breath to come a little faster.
* * *
Karl Honister finished reading the article out loud, and looked over the top of it at Byron. “Frau Linder is some connection to you, isn’t she?”
Byron shrugged as he signed off on a report. “Wife’s sister.”
“Is she always so…ah, direct?”
Gotthilf snorted. “Try strong-willed. She’s full-blood sister, after all, to the woman who married him,” he jerked a thumb at his partner, “of her own free will, and holds her own with him.”
“Point,” Honister said as Byron grinned. The other detective sergeant pulled a paper out of his coat, and unfolded a broadsheet. “But I have met Frau Linder the elder, and I don’t think she would have seen this come out from something she did.”
Byron took the paper, and Gotthilf read over his shoulder. The hair on his neck stood up as his eyes scanned down the lyrics on the page. “Wow,” the down-timer said.
“Nope,” Byron said after he handed the page back to Honister. “Jonni might be stubborn and hardheaded, but she’s never been in her little sister’s league. And even though she didn’t write the words, that’s pure quill Marla on that page. No give to her, once she’s decided.” He scanned over and signed another report. “I’m not much of a praying man, but from time to time I thank God for sending Franz Sylwester along four years ago.”
“What do you mean?” Gotthilf asked.
“You’ve met Marla. Try to imagine her without Franz in her life.”
Gotthilf considered, and twitched his shoulders in a sudden chill.
“Yah.”
Grantville
Atwood was so wrapped up in the music that when it came to an end, he had forgotten where he was. It was an occupational hazard for a disc jockey. It took a moment before he realized it was time for him to talk again. He quickly flipped a switch on the board and leaned forward to the microphone on the table.
“Once again, that was the Little Fugue in G, written originally for organ by Johann Sebastian Bach and transcribed for orchestra by Leopold Stokowski. I hope you enjoyed that; it’s certainly one of my favorites.”
As he was talking, Atwood was flipping switches and checking that the cassette player was cued up. It still amused him from time to time that he was a radio disc jockey to half of Germany.
He flipped a last switch and spoke into the open mike. “I promised you something very special at the beginning of the evening. Tonight we have a recording of someone here in Germany, made only a week ago. I predict that you will either like it or hate it, but you will not be able to ignore it. So, here is Marla Linder and her friends, with ‘Do You Hear the People Sing?’”
Atwood pressed the play button on the cassette deck. After a moment the music began to flow from the control room monitor speakers. He leaned back and just listened, a large grin on his face.
He had the professional musician’s ability to divorce himself from the effect of the music while he appraised the performance. It was especially hard to do for this recording, though, and not because he’d been involved in producing it. Marla’s performance was beyond her usual excellence; it was so spot on it was like it was the sonic equivalent of a laser beam. And for a live recording, with the equipment available, it was pretty darn good, if he did say so himself. His Sony rig was near top of the line when he got it, and for Marla he had opened his last virgin chromium dioxide cassette tape package, over which he would never record. That sound was as clear and as pristine as anything that would be produced for generations, probably. The folks at Trommler Records had practically slavered over it.
And wouldn’t it just set the fox in the henhouse, though? Most down-timers still didn’t get the full power and impact of radio. The nobility for sure didn’t get it. This recording would drive the point home like a ten penny nail smacked by a sixteen-pound sledge hammer.
Assessment over, he surrendered himself to the music. All too soon it was finished. He leaned forward again. “There is nothing I can say after that. I hope you enjoyed it. And if you did like it, you might drop a line to the folks at Trommler Records. They’re going to put out a record of that song. It should be available soon.
“Thanks for being with us this Sunday evening for Adventures in Great Music on the Voice of America Radio Network, sponsored by the Burke Wish Book, where you can order anything you need or want. I’ll see you next Sunday evening.